I see two reasons why my mother may be plotting against my son’s cats. First, though, let me say that I always blamed my mother for Dorian’s death.
She pointed out that he was missing, then about 3 or 4 days later she said the neighbor (who drove that way daily) had spotted grey fur on the road at the back of the property. I never saw the remains. She claimed they scraped him off the road and buried what they got, without my knowing it. I never thought before to question this. I blamed my mother for “sending him” that way with her mind, to danger: none of the cats ever went up that way.
Then there was Cinnamon. He bit my sister’s hand and after that he was felinus non grata. He laid alone, unattended, on the driveway, don’t know what he was thinking. Then my mother decided to lock him up in the bottom of the empty 300 year old house across the drive. I let him out when I heard his haunting and angry yowling. He died a natural death. But not until after I stood up for him when she called the vet in to have him put down. She refused to.
This is all very scary to me. I’ve also written about Kitten, who got put down when her kittens were 6 weeks old, in preparation for my sister’s birth. (Obviously there is another theme in my mother’s psychopathy involving my sister’s importance to the world as we know it.)
As for my son’s cats there are two factors which would suddenly put them in jeapordy on account of my mother. First, the romantic betrayal. My son came to my house after they had what was clearly to her a lover’s quarrel. He plays into this theme. She checks on him in the wee hours of the morning. She is also an insomniac.
He has us both in love with him. I’m the trooper who puts up with their playing. I pity my son.
The second factor is the Munchaussen by proxy accusation I mentioned in one of the last three posts–I accused her of it when she threatened me with county mental health services. I was discussing decreasing my medication, with her. She claimed I was a danger to myself and others, which she may sincerely believe. I recently attempted suicide again and once kicked the flying f- out of her when stopping anti-psychotic medication. Way back then, it started with prime ham: I was trying to feed it to my cats and she tried to stop me–so I rubbed my fingers real quick over the slice I was holding so she couldn’t use it.
Food is another psychotic trigger in my mother’s house.
She said she would have me “picked up” if I decreased the medication without her input. I am very stable now.
I think my father, whom I’ve barely mentioned, comes into play here. He’s the one who would submit this possibility. He’s the one who could be so heartless as to murder? innocent, sweet little cats. Or make them go away some other way. I don’t know what to do except play along, because I have seen that cats can be a liability–my mother’s two orange cats give her and my father away all the time. And the responsibility is a problem for a young adult trying to find his way. My mother was kind of funny on the phone last night. Super-nice, in a “sickly” sweet [Br. expr.] kind of a way, and she brought all my favorite foods when she came to my apartment to pick him up. This is really scary..